


Make We Joy Now In This Fest

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Christmas fic, M/M, McLennon, Schmoop, seriously check your blood sugar after reading this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: It's Christmas, 1965, and Paul has a surprise gift for the other three Beatles. George POV. In response to an Anon request for "a sweet Christmas story."





	Make We Joy Now In This Fest

**Author's Note:**

> Things that are true:  
> Paul made four acetates, one for himself and three for the other guys as a Christmas present in 1965.  
> George and Pattie got engaged in December, 1965. George went to Liverpool on Boxing Day to see his family.
> 
> Everything else is purely imaginary.
> 
> The title comes from a medieval Christmas carol.

December 23, 1965

 

It wasn't really Christmas weather, this drizzle that managed to be cold enough to be uncomfortable yet a bit too warm to turn to snow. George shook water off of himself like a wet dog. Behind him, Ringo fumbled with his umbrella, trying to shut the bloody thing before giving up the struggle and leaving it to drip dejectedly in the corner of the vestibule.

Who would ever have thought it - Paul buying a house with a formal fucking vestibule?

The new digs were in an extremely unfinished state. One sitting room wall had been halfway knocked down, leaving plaster scattered like snow on the floor. Paint-spattered dropcloths were festooned between tall ladders. Most of the light came from bare bulbs in the ceiling. _Ever the optimist_ , George thought when he saw that Paul had a Christmas tree in one corner and decorations on the mantel despite the draft blowing in from the fireplace. George drew his jacket tighter around himself, shivering.

"Sorry, sorry." Paul bustled in with a tray and handed around mugs of hot cocoa. A tempting hint of rum rose up from the steaming mug. "Jane's parents are having a do tonight, and the studio is just too much like work, so..."

"Not to worry," Ringo said after taking a long swallow of the boozy chocolate. "But I do have to ask, what are we doing here?'

Paul shifted from foot to foot and blew on his hands. George saw color rise in Paul's face. "Well, we're waiting for John, then I'll tell you." 

"Fair enough," George said mildly although his curiosity was piqued. Why had Paul insisted that he drive here in this miserable weather instead of sitting at home with Pattie in front of a roaring fire? And why just the four of them, no wives or girlfriends?

A gust of cold, humid air and a muffled cry of "It's colder than a witch's tit out there, Macca!" announced John's arrival. He was routinely late for everything. George suspected that he timed his lateness, the better to make a grand entrance. "This better be worth it!"

George grinned as John entered the room, wet and disheveled, wearing his old horn-rimmed glasses instead of his contact lenses. Paul immediately offered him a hot drink, the steam fogging John's glasses to the point where he had to take them off and wipe them on his sopping jacket. It didn't seem to help, so John reached for a dropcloth and used that instead.

"So," Paul said, his voice tight and almost anxious as they all watched John smear drops of water over his lenses, "thanks for coming out on such a bad night. Sorry the place isn't ready yet."

"That's an understatement," John said, placing his almost-clean glasses on his nose and peering around at the detritus of the renovation project. "We're farther along at Kenwood, if you can believe it. Be moving out of the attic into the house proper, soon."

"Good, good. I'm still at Jane's until this is done. Probably early spring."

Ringo and John exchanged a glance with George. Often, with wine and pot flowing freely, they had discussed the odd arrangement of Paul staying at the Ashers' home. What parents in their right minds would invite a young, virile man in the full flower of superstardom to live in the same house as their teenaged daughter, however sophisticated she might be? Ringo had posed the former question, while George's thoughts ran in a different direction: as eager as Paul was to shed his working-class roots and climb the social ladder, how could he not realize the implicit message of living in the Ashers' attic and working in their basement?

John, as was his wont, had merely made a face and said "The Ashers of Wimpole Street" in a plummy, posh accent, then grumbled that he was sick of the parents using Paul's status to gain publicity for their mildly-talented offspring.

Then Paul had bought this place and got caught up in the renovation process. As meticulous as Paul was about all aspects of his life, this chaos had to be driving him crazy. George noticed that Paul's fingers twitched as if they were playing an invisible guitar, a sure sign that he was nervous.

What about, though?

"Anyway," continued Paul, his gaze falling somewhere between George and the fireplace, "I know it's weird, my staying here in London. It's the farthest I've lived from you lot, ever."

George realized with a pang that Paul was right. He looked over his shoulder and saw John gazing intently at Paul, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"What're you getting at?" John asked archly.

"Nothing. Well, almost nothing. You'll think it's nothing, or that I'm, y'know, soft or something. But these are for you." Paul indicated three gold-wrapped packages sitting under the little Christmas tree. They were flat, meaning they were probably albums of some sort.

It was Ringo's turn to look uncomfortable. "I thought we agreed that we weren't doing presents this year," he said, patting the pockets of his overcoat as if he could magically produce a reciprocal gift.

"We did," Paul replied, "but I just put these together. It's nothing special, really." He beckoned them over to the tree as he knelt down and handed one package up to each of them. 

"Your magnum opus at last?" John inquired as he tore into the paper and pulled an acetate record out of its wax paper sleeve. It was freshly cut, George realized as he got a whiff of the peculiar musty smell of a disc recently taken off the machine.

Laughing, Paul shook his head and tugged at his earlobe before standing up again. "Hardly. Just put together some songs I thought you might enjoy, y'know, Elvis and all, and a tape loop thing, and, well, just me talking and acting like a daft compère."

"Like the fan club records, only you did one for us!" Ringo chuckled. "That's grand, Paulie, thank you."

George clutched his disc close. His heart sped up when he realized that Paul must have spent a good deal of time and money on this tiny run of records. Money was no problem for any of them nowadays, but time, that was priceless. He smiled at Paul, who was chewing absently on a hangnail as he watched his friends' reactions.

"I don't know how you had time to do this, but thanks." George wrapped one arm around Paul and hugged him. Paul leaned into the embrace, his cheek warm against George's neck.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ringo swipe away a tear. Sentimental to the last, their Ringo. "I'd better make a tape of this - these acetates are soft."

"Like you, Ringo?" John asked, but without malice in his voice. "Gettin' choked up over a record that's not even gonna be on the charts."

"Y'never know. Could be worth a fortune someday." Ringo opened his coat and nestled the record beneath it, then came over to Paul and ruffled his hair. "You're just a car ride away, Paul. Any time you want to see us...you're always welcome." He took a step back, cocking his head. "I've got to get home - got a train set to put together for Zak."

"He's three months old!" Paul exclaimed.

"But his dad's not," put in John with a wry grin. 

They all laughed at the notion of Ringo playing with a train while his infant son gurgled in the background. Ringo acknowledged the truth of John's statement by rolling his eyes. "You gonna help me with it? I can give you a lift back."

John shook his head. "Ta, but I'll just stick here for a bit. Maybe listen to this fab recording, decide if it's a hit or a miss."

"I, uh, don't have a turntable," admitted Paul as he slowly pulled away from George's side. "Not much call for one with all this going on. Plenty of time for that when it stops looking like a bomb site."

George felt the familiar frisson, the electricity they all shared when they came up with an idea at the same time. They would need to talk to one another later, to ensure that Paul didn't have three stereo systems delivered to him on Christmas Eve.

"I'd better get home, as well," George said. "I'm going up to Liverpool on Boxing Day to surprise the family." He didn't mention that the surprise would be announcing his engagement to Pattie. He hadn't yet plucked up the courage to tell his bandmates, much less to ask Paul to stand up for him. The thought sent a wave of fondness for Paul through him, making him glad that John would stay behind so he wouldn't be left on his own. "This is brilliant," he added, pointing at the record. "Thanks, Paul."

"You're welcome, George, Ringo. Be safe. I'll see you after the holiday, then." He accompanied them to the vestibule, where Ringo retrieved his sad umbrella and held it over himself and George as they headed back to their cars. 

Suddenly, George began to wonder if Paul even had plans for the holiday other than sitting in the Ashers' attic or this cold, drafty, unfinished house. "I'm going back for a moment, see you!" he called to Ringo as he dashed back up to the house. It would be no trouble at all for him to take Paul up to see Jim and Mike. That way he could tell Paul about the wedding on the way, so he'd just step inside and ask...

He stopped in his tracks. John and Paul stood together by the Christmas tree, gazing intently into each others' eyes. They weren't speaking, just looking at one another, yet there was a hum of communication in the way that John had one hand on Paul's cheek and the other at his waist. Paul's arms moved with languid fluidity as he reached up to tangle his long fingers in the hair at John's nape.

George swallowed. It was hardly the first time he'd seen the two of them "sharing a quiet moment," as Brian delicately phrased it, but the sight always froze him in place. While he'd long since gotten over the idea that it was wrong, or at least puzzling and weird, he still could not understand why two blokes would ever want to do such a thing. But the magnetism between John and Paul, something ineffably beautiful, made it impossible to turn away.

Perhaps it was the softening of John's prickly defenses when he leaned in close to Paul, exposing the tenderness he worked so diligently to conceal. Perhaps it was the way Paul relaxed, becoming still and silent - for once - at John's touch. No matter the reason, they were exquisite together.

George held his breath as John tipped Paul's chin upward and kissed him.

The kiss was unhurried, tender. It was sweet - a word George would not normally associate with either of these men. 

It wasn't selfish voyeurism that held George's attention at moments like this. It ran deeper, through the ten years of his friendship with Paul, through the times Paul had been so desperate for John's notice, for his approval, for his respect. George was joyful to see Paul held securely in John's arms, their foreheads pressed together while Paul hummed quietly against John's lips. Even if it could only be in secret, in anonymous hotel rooms or unfinished houses or God knows where, this was what his friends needed. George loved John and Paul was his brother-by-choice. Whatever made them happy, George would guard with his very life.

At that point in his reverie he realized that John had turned his head and was looking directly at him. He started to apologize, but John put a finger over his own lips - his middle one, which he then raised to George with a droll smile.

Answering with his own raised middle finger, George simply nodded and tiptoed out of the house, careful to close the door softly behind him as he stepped out into a flurry of lacy snowflakes.

At last, it felt like Christmas.


End file.
